


Mundane

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Talon - Freeform, and the talon interns are terrified of him, in which Reaper has to put up with everyone's shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Talon is a decent enough employer, but that doesn't mean Reaper is constantly carrying out missions. Even an undead mercenary has spare time, and old habits die hard.





	1. Chapter 1

He was one of Talon's best agents, a mercenary who was neither dead nor alive. Deadly accurate with a shotgun and able to burst into smoke in a moment’s notice. He could suck the very life out of someone and use it to sustain himself. A trump card that could wipe whole squadrons off the map.

And Widowmaker found him asleep on the break room couch. 

Usually when Reaper had finished a mission he could be found giving a debrief or holed up in whatever place he had staked as his own, planning whatever it was he did when he wasn't actively working for Talon. Widowmaker hadn't actually been sure if he slept or not, or if he even ate or drank. The latter she still didn't have the answer to, but the former appeared to have a solid answer. 

That being said, she still knew some of his secrets. Mostly because he'd pulled her aside in confidentiality one day, speaking in hushed, harried tones. 

She had promised that yes, she would feed his axolotl while he was gone. 

Initially she didn’t understand why he kept the small creature. To be a mercenary was to be ruthless, merciless. It was to have no weaknesses. And yet here was an undead man keeping a small, pink, permanently neotenic animal.

It took her weeks to get an answer out of him, grumpily mumbled. Their regenerative properties. He felt a certain bond with the tiny, regenerative salamander.

Widowmaker had stopped questioning him about it.

The presence of Reaper on the couch had essentially chased off any Talon operative who was interested in catching up on their favourite shows, or perhaps in getting a snack from a vending machine. She’d seen one member beeline to the coffee machine and then practically set the world record for speed-jogging backwards once they had noticed the leather-clad man on the couch.

Reaper was spread out on his side over the entire worn couch, spiked gauntlets resting by his face and dirty boots hiked up onto the fabric. The television was quietly playing ads, something about a ‘getting your free trial today!’ Widowmaker shook her head, picking up the remote and dulling the sound. Not that it seemed like Reaper would be up anytime soon.

He’d likely fallen asleep watching, which was already strange. He’d never shown much interest in mindless entertainment, or in interacting with the rest of Talon. The only conclusion she could make was that the killer was truly and utterly exhausted and had found the first soft surface to collapse onto.

Reaper’s mask was in place, his face hidden as usual. If there was a face beneath there Widowmaker had no idea what it looked like. If there were eyes that were closed, if his face was as relaxed as the rest of his body or if it was tense with nightmares and restless sleep.

Heels clicking against the floor as the elite talon agent drew the blinds at the window shut. No way was she going to wake the sleeping mercenary. There weren’t any shotguns in sight but Widowmaker knew well enough that a puff of smoke and the barrel of a gun could be pressed against her head in a split second.

But she didn’t fear the reaper. She didn’t know what made him tick, but she at least was familiar with how his mind worked. Which meant that she had no problem with rooting in the cupboards for some pre-ground coffee to brew. Disgusting and lacking in flavour, but it contained the caffeine she was searching for. A newspaper was sitting on the counter, indicative that few people had passed through; people had a habit of accidentally taking them as they left. Enough so that a few Talon members had started to leave passive aggressive post-it notes.

Widowmaker glanced over the front pages until the pot had filled. Briefly she thought of investing in a French press, but in a break room for a company of this sorts the utility likely wouldn’t stay whole for very long. She wrinkled her nose as she poured the dark liquid into a dark blue mug then replaced the pot, keeping the bottom warmer on.

Nudging a chair into a convenient spot by the table, Widowmaker sat, crossing her legs, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

The occasional agent filtered into the room, immediately on edge when they saw her; neither she nor Reaper were a common occurrence in the break room where common members mingled. Most would avoid her eye, not wanting to get caught in the sniper’s sights. A few gratefully went for the coffee pot, ditching the room soon afterwards. A few boisterous conversations died the moment eyes were set on her. She didn’t even have to look up, her presence itself having power.

But she still watched out of the corner of her eye. She listened to their footsteps, to their silence, and to their quiet mumbles. When it was only her and Reaper in the room she could hear breathing. Sometimes it was soft, and sometimes it was more haggard. She idly wondered if it was due to parts of his body turning into that inky black smoke.

Some agents who came in didn’t care about her as much, barely grunting a greeting before setting themselves on a search for the TV remote. They were her favourites. Not because of their rude greetings, but because each and every one were caught in surprise. And each and every one tried to keep their footsteps as quiet as possible, no one even daring to take out a phone and snap a picture.

If something like that circulated Widowmaker was sure she would find the dried out husk of the source the next day.

Widowmaker ended up having to refill the coffee pot only once, making a mental note of those who were brave enough to walk past her and help themselves to the fruits of her labour.

Eventually there was the deep rustle of fabric and the light chink of metal. A crack of one's neck, then the heavy sound of a two combat boots meeting the floor. Reaper had finally awoken.

His head slowly turned, and Widowmaker was sure that whatever equivalent to eyes Reaper had were focused directly on her. He didn’t speak. For a moment she didn’t speak either, instead blinking languidly in a manner that let the man know that she had been present for a decent portion of his nap.

“Coffee, _mon ami fatigue_ ,” she offered simply, nodding to the pot with her head before turning her full attention back to the paper. Silence. And then the solid thud, thud, thud of Reaper trudging to the counter, followed by the thumps and clinks of cups and cupboards.

So he did drink.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice ragged as always. He was out the door immediately afterwards.

Widowmaker waited until the footsteps had faded away before scoffing. “ _De rien_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all started because of a simple thought I had and then it grew and now I can't stop it
> 
> This one ended up a bit more Widowmaker-centric, but the futures chapters aren't.
> 
>  _mon ami fatigue_ = my tired friend  
>  _De rien_ = You're welcome (casual)


	2. Chapter 2

Direct deposit was something invented years ago. Decades ago, even. So there was no explanation that would sate Reaper as to why a stammering, ridiculously nervous low-level agent handed him a cheque.

Pity was long gone from Reaper’s admittedly small list of emotions. He almost took a shotgun to the face of the poor man, who only spared himself by squeaking out “Don’t shoot the messenger!” before bolting like a vole who’d just spotted an owl.

Which left Reaper alone, staring at a piece of high-security paper held carefully between the claws of his gauntlet. Having a bank account had been a bit of a tricky matter, and he’d had to go through a ridiculous amount of re-routing processes to make sure he didn’t have a credit chit which boldly announced that he was Gabriel Reyes, long deceased member of Blackwatch. 

Hell, the only people who knew his actual name were Widowmaker and Sombra. Widowmaker because he’d eventually told her, and Sombra because nothing would keep her greasy little paws off of information she wanted to know.

He left the actual depositing on money to Talon. Usually he’d get a simple ping on his phone to let him know that there had been a successful deposit for the jobs he carried out for the organisation. The weeks and months he didn’t work for them he expected no pings, and he was always right.

But here and now his entire process had been interrupted. Something about a problem with the routing and Talon not wanting to think they had shortchanged him. A good idea, seeing as Reaper had no problem sending messages to anyone who felt they could sneak one by him.

He couldn’t send someone off to cash his cheque. That would mean giving someone his security number, and even if he killed them directly afterwards there was no way to know if that number had been spread or not. He couldn’t ask Widowmaker or Sombra; the former would just laugh, turn up her nose, and walk away. The latter would most definitely steal his cheque for fun. Or hack into his entire bank account.

Which meant that Reaper needed to deal with this situation himself.

The frustrated groan that left him was loud enough that a Talon agent happening to pass by his temporary room jumped.

\---

Depending on who one asked, it was either very early in the morning or very late at night when Reaper took to the streets. Black blended in with the night. Hiding was important when you were known as a terrorist.

Any street corners that were well lit were areas where the mercenary became tendrils of dark smoke instead of a stalking hunter, weaving his way down the streets and moving to his destination.

Usually his destination would be something important. Some threat which needed to be eliminated, a power core that needed to be taken out, or important political figures for which he had bullets with their names written on for.

This time, his target was different.

An ATM. A simple, goddamn ATM. One of the closest ones he had been able to find on the holo maps located in every phone. He wanted to deposit his damn cheque and then get the hell out of there before anyone had even noticed he’d left his room.

Reaper reformed, piecing his body back together quickly. His initial thought had been to find one in a dodgy area, somewhere where it wouldn’t be strange if an intruder showed up dead. But he had gathered his thoughts, realising that his best bet would be an area where the wealthier were. Rarely were they out late at night, and if they were they tended to be rowdy and loud, drunk off their asses.

First things first; surveillance. Reaper hugged the wall, sliding underneath the fairly obvious, smooth glass dome that contained a simple camera. He doubted anyone was even watching, or that the device even recorded sound. Nothing he was doing was actually illegal, but there were plenty of warrants out for his arrest. Brutal murder tended to garner those.

An easy shot took out the device and Reaper stowed his gun back underneath his cloak, eyes narrowed. Not because he suspected anyone would come running. He just couldn’t believe he was in this situation.

Insert chit. Chose language. Direct deposit. Error.

Wait, what?

ERROR, the screen yelled at him, before offering an apology and a number to call for assistance. Systems were currently experiencing issues, and their technicians were working around the clock to solve the issue.

Bullshit, he thought in exhausted frustration. He dragged his hand down his face, his other still holding the thin piece of paper between his claws.

This was ridiculous.

\---

Attempt number two was made days later, after he realised that the bank was still struggling to fix its machines. Its tellers were still functioning though, inviting customers to use them as an alternative to the impersonal machines.

A confrontation with Sombra ended with her laughing, calling Reaper an old man, and insisting that no, she wasn’t the one messing with the machines. She’d then thanked him for the idea and he’d groaned. If he ever had this problem again then he was going to wring her up by her technological implants.

Between attempt one and two he’d tagged onto a mission, somberly sitting in a transport with his arms crossed as the accompanying Talon agents eyes almost bugged out of their sockets.

He killed and drained each hostile of their life. Afterwards he was certain he saw at least one young agent make their way to the psych ward, likely having never worked with the ruthless mercenary before.

He didn’t return on the transport, roughly informing the pilot that he would be making his own way back. They didn’t argue.

He was going to cash that cheque.

The energy he drained went straight into keeping himself a wisp of smoke, slipping through the streets. He wasn’t about to wait in a line just to cash a damn cheque. He likely was going to have to get them routed through another number though, and tell Sombra to transfer his account. He did it frequently anyway, but he doubted he’d be able to keep this one for long.

And so an angry Reaper materialised smack dab in the centre of a bank, cheque in hand.

“I’m here to make a deposit,” he rumbled.

Someone in line fainted. Another screamed. One teller threw themselves to the floor as if Reaper had come in with guns blazing. So he approached the other, an omnic whose fingers were posed over a keyboard.

In one minute Reaper had crushed the phone of one of the customers. In two minutes one of the customers had slunk out of the bank. In three minutes there were sirens blaring outside. In four he had completed a successful transaction, thank you sir. In five he was already halfway across the city, the smoke that was his body contorting around bullets as the police uselessly tried to stop him.

In ten Sombra had seen the news and rerouted everything he had. Reaper would have to lecture her about not touching his things again.

Half an hour after he had returned and Talon had offered him a formal apology and asked him to _please_ , please not do that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is all emboardom's fault


	3. Chapter 3

The more difficult a mission, the more elite members were to be sent on it. Despite the track record the news had sunk its claws into, a mission that had both Reaper and Widowmaker on it had a high chance of success. Add Sombra to the mix and that chances rose, as long as she wasn’t holding any personal grudges against any of the members.

Reaper could still remember the absolutely broken and betrayed look on one infantryman’s face as Sombra stared him straight in the eye and dropped his phone off the edge of the transport jet.

Apparently he’d ‘anonymously’ complained about her on some social media site. Foolish.

Their mission had been a success but extraction was less graceful. It was a struggle for the three of them to hide; Reaper was large and recognizable, Sombra practically glowed pink when she wasn’t cloaked, and Widowmaker didn’t have a skin tone that was anywhere near that of a normal human.

So Reaper had smashed the window of the nearest car with his elbow and wrenched the lock open, barking orders that likely weren’t even needed for Sombra to slide in and start fiddling with the car’s electronics, alarm going silent with a sad ‘BWeeeop’.

She was then promptly kicked out of the front seat by Widowmaker. Something about seniority earning the front seat. Reaper just grunted, slamming his foot down on the gas and listening to the purr of the engine as the frictionless machine shot down the street.

Silence reigned as the trio focused on their individual efforts, either driving or reporting in to Talon and letting the organization know the details of a successful mission, return pending in a stolen vehicle. Arrangements would be made to dispose of the evidence.

Half an hour. Reaper got half an hour of blessed silence.

“I’m hungry.”

Reaper had half the mind to throw Sombra out of the car, but he knew that if he did so she would turn up at the base a few hours later and there would also be a fake social media account with his alias and embarrassing facts plastered all over it.

“Eat when you get back to the base,” he grumbled. This was not his problem. Nor was it Widowmaker’s either, made obvious by the way she didn’t bother to turn her head away from the window.

The steering wheel jerked to the side, the entire vehicle abruptly changing lanes. Someone honked. Reaper didn’t need to look back to know that there would be small pink and purple screens and strands coming from Sombra’s fingers.

“Well hey, check that out. A McBurgers, next right. Good thing we’re in the right lane,” she chirped.

More grumbling and a scowl from Reaper. He spitefully refused to turn on his indicator as he turned. Someone else honked. Reaper treated them to a covered and clawed middle finger out of the rolled down broken window.

A line at the drive-through. Smoke curled from beneath Reaper’s mask, it and the squeak of leather as he clenched his fingers around the steering wheel where signs of an already frustrated killer.

Reaper’s phone whistled. He ignored it.

“I would like a burger and fries,” came the voice to his right, accent coming out strong on ‘burger’. Reaper slowly turned his head, eyes underneath his mask staring straight at Widowmaker’s own. This was ridiculous, he was being ganged up on by the two women. He expected this from Sombra, but not from the grown women in the car. But Widowmaker shrugged, leaning her elbow against the windowsill. “And a shake, seeing as we are already here.”

The rear-view mirror had a perfect view of the smug hacker in the back seat, one leg propped up on her knee and phone nestled in her hand. “Same,” he said simply.

Reaper’s phone whistled again. He moved forward in the line before glancing down at it.

“Sombra,” he growled threateningly.

Silence. No whistles.

“Vanilla,” is the next word that breaks Reaper’s precious silence again, this time from Widowmaker. Reaper permits it, finger tapping impatiently against the wheel. It wasn’t that he had some deadline that he needed to get back by, but each moment spent waiting in the fast food line was a minute he could be using to hunt down Overwatch agents. Or do literally anything other than this.

The next car eventually pulled forward and Reaper reflexively leaned towards the window a bit, arm thrown over the window sill, knowing that any cheap cameras would have already been disabled. “Yeah, let me get three cheeseburgers. Three milkshakes.”

A whistle.

“Sombra. If you don’t stop live-tweeting this, you’re not getting fries,” he threatened. “Three fri-“

Whistle.

“You know what? Two fries,” he corrected to the simultaneous sound of the employee chirping their total and Sombra protesting. “Two fries. You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?”

“You don’t even eat!” The hacker protested as Reaper pulled forward, one hand on the wheel and one hand on a freshly loaded shotgun.

The employee looked dead on the inside when he opened the window, eyes only half open when they repeated the total. Their eyes widened when the safety of Reaper’s shotgun clicked off. “N-never mind,” he stuttered, waving them forward to the second window. Reaper grunted, moving the car forward the few feet. The crinkle of a bag being folded over reached his ears and Reaper had to reach out to snatch it before the second employee almost dropped it. His eyes narrowed beneath his mask, but he knew to the outside world all anyone would see was the bone-white outside of it.

“No one will ever believe you,” he informed, handing the bag over to Widowmaker to keep it out of Sombra’s hands. The older woman divided the food based on the orders, rolling it up and putting it by her feet. Sombra whined about her lack of fries and Reaper floored it back to the base, still trying to get Reaper’s own fries. Her arguments weren’t exactly weak; no one had ever seen him eat and he wasn’t above ordering his own food just to anger the young woman.

She sulked the entire trip back.

Reaper stormed off to his room once they arrived, claws piercing holes into the greasy brown bag.

The melted shake and lukewarm burger were eaten in the privacy of his room. He was blocked from Sombra’s Twitter for a week.

The fries were pitched out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely inspired by [this Scrubs scene](http://www.funnyjunk.com/Scrubs/funny-pictures/5299095/).
> 
> Also: [check it out in comic form](http://emboardom.tumblr.com/post/153110520264/drive-thru-scene-from-the-newest-chapter-of-my) by [emboardom](http://emboardom.tumblr.com/).


End file.
